The canvas of monsters
by kimi-ebi
Summary: She has never seen him this sad. When she asks him what's wrong, he replies he can't tell her. He seems scared, and he scares her. She has never seen him this way. Something's not right and she wants him to feel better, so she says: "If you can't talk about it, maybe you can show me." And he begins to paint.


_**Disclaimer:** No character belongs to me. They are the property of Masashi Kishimoto, and I'm just having fun playing with them.  
_

_**Thanks**_**:** _I want to thank Billy Stone for her advices for the end of this story - without her, it wouldn't be the same story -, as well as Chisei and Shoupinett for their opinion and support. I want to thank Autumn Dreamer for helping me spot mistakes in this translation (I'm french and this is the translation of one my texts)._

_**Comic adaptation: **__after reading the french version of this text, my best friend wanted to adapt this fanfiction into a comic. The publication has just started, but he has done some wonderful work and if you're interested, you can find this adaptation on the site tapas (his pseudonym being Autumn Dreamer). There are two comics - one in french and one in english._

**_Note:_**_ this is an english translation of one of my fanfictions, "La toile des monstres". I'm french and Autumn Dreamer, who helps me correct this text, is also french, so there might be some mistakes in this version, and I'm sorry for that. ___I chose to do this translation because I love translating stories but had only done so by doing french versions of english texts. I wanted to try translating into english and reading the english version of the comic adaptation of this fanfiction made me want to try it with this text. It's also my first time writing in english, so please don't hesitate to tell me if you find any mistakes in this text.__

_This fanfiction is centered around Sai and Sakura. I wanted to take up a challenge with this text. I wanted to write about a sensitive topic in a realistic way. This text is about rape, and Sai is the victim (but there's no description of the assault, the word "rape" doesn't even appear in this text, which is focused on the consequences of the rape, on feelings and psychology). I've read a lot of fanfictions where rape is a topic that is treated in a non-serious way, and some of them were making me angry, and that's the reason why I wanted to write a realistic text on this topic. I did a lot of research and it was very hard to write this text. I also hope Sai isn't OOC because I found it hard to write him._

_Anyway, I hope you enjoy this text as much as I enjoyed writing it and translating it into english._

* * *

The canvas of monsters

* * *

He didn't exactly know how much time he spent like this – lying on the cold bare ground, his arms holding his body, frail and shivering. Maybe it was a matter of minutes, maybe it was a matter of hours, of days, but for him, it seemed like forever. He felt that even time had forsaken him, that he was cut off from the world, that he would never get out of there.

But, did it even matter?

He curled into a ball, knees held tight against his chest, in a desperate attempt to protect himself. From what? He didn't exactly know. Probably from everything: the outside world, this bedroom and its walls – too dark, too cold – and from _him_, even if he was gone, even if… _but what if he came back?_

He shuddered, curled up a little more. He wanted to weep, but his eyes were dry and wide opened, as if stunned. He still could not believe it.

These kind of things were not supposed to happen.

These kind of things could never happen.

Or maybe they could, but only to others, sometimes – not to someone you knew, not to someone you cared about, and certainly not to yourself.

And he still could not believe that _it _had happened to him.

He wasn't really sure, because he didn't _want _it to have happened. But memories were there, stuck in his mind, and he knew that even though he had forgotten a lot of things – things that he would never remember –, this event was written with indelibile ink. He would be branded by it, for a long time.

For ever.

And there was the pain, the agony, as if his flesh were burning wherever he could still feel his fingers on his skin, and there was the tightness in his chest, his compressed lungs struggling to get oxygen. It hurt so much. His head, his neck, his torso, his arms, his legs, his _hips_, and… and… he had left bruises everywhere, he was sure of it. Yet he hadn't fought back, and perhaps it was the worst, because maybe, just maybe… maybe then it would have stayed something that could happen to others, but not to yourself.

And ironically, there was this emptiness in his heart, this all-engulfing emptiness, this strong and oppressive sense that he was nothing, that he had never been more than this, that he didn't matter to anyone, because after all, as _he _had said: _You have no name, no identity. No one cares about you. _And then he had added, and it was probably the most painful: _You should be happy to be of use to someone else._

Happy to be of use to someone else.

Happy to be used.

The words were spinning inside his mind, again and again, and he couldn't stop them, couldn't escape them.

And he believed that it was the moment he had started sobbing. He wasn't really sure. Because he never cried. But the pain had been just too much. The pain was still just too much. But he didn't have any tear left to shed.

And nearby, a sound, like something loudly striking the ground, like _a shoe on the floor_, and sundenly the lingering fear in the pit of his stomach turned into terror. Panick invaded him, drops of sweats rolling on his back, on his forehead, on his chest. A stream of thoughts assaulted him, composed of pictures mingled with words, sounds, memories, colliding again and again, in utter chaos. But it could be reduced to a sentence – a single but terryfying sentence.

Had _he_ come back?

Other pictures in his head, and a furious urge to vomit.

He listened, alert, eyes wide opened, dazed. Around him, the room was empty and quiet. Dark. He recalled the way he had arisen from the obscurity, just there, next to the door. But the door was closed, he was sure of that, sure of being alone. He remembered the words that broke the silence – these terrible words that he would never forget. They meld into the instant, invading it and ringing in his ears as if _he _were still there, as if everything belonged to the present, while they were a thing of a not-so-foreigned past. And he wondered if he hadn't imagined the sound of footsteps, because he was certain that his memories were full of them, and…

Was he losing his mind?

He listened, but there really was nothing. Apart from the silence. And he didn't want to hear anything. His eyes could discern the outlines of his furnitures, his closet in a corner, which had never seemed so huge and grim. Suddenly, he feared that someone might come out of it and pounce on him, and he began to shake violently. And there was the door, that he could not even look at, because the thought of seeing something, of seeing _him_, was unbearable. So he stared at the window. Light was piercing through weakly, plunging him into a semi-obscurity. Waiting.

He waited, and he noticed that he had bitten his lip and that there was a metallic taste, a bloody taste, on his tongue. He remembered feeling something similar when _he…_ when… he forced himself to think about something else. It was too painful, and he wanted so hard to forget that it burned. Maybe it was because he knew he would never forget. And he didn't know how he was supposed to live with this.

He waited, and really there was no one, really he was _alone_, so he stayed there, knees held tight against his chest, eyes wide opened, skin far too white, lying at the exact same place where he was so severely hurt, because he hadn't had the strenght to move.

Suddenly, a noise, and this time he was certain that it belonged to the present, because there was nothing like that in his memories, in this nightmare, because it was the sound of a fist hitting a door, and that _he _didn't take the time to tap at the door, because the only place where a fist collided was his skin, and that it did not make the same sound, at all.

During a long moment, he remained motionless, not knowing how to react. Then, as he kept hearing the same noise, and as a strong voice, that he couldn't identify, was reaching him, he decided to stand up, because a terrible thought had struck him.

What if… whaf if the door was unlocked, and that the other decided to get in, no matter who he was, no matter what he wanted?

He only knew one thing for sure. He did not want anyone to find him in such an appalling state. He would die of shame – _he's already dying of shame._ So he stood up, felt a sharp pain in his legs and nearly collapsed. The room started spinning, as if he were in some kind of carrousel – a cruel kind of carrousel. Maybe it was just that, after all. A carrousel, an illusion, and soon he would realize that none of that had existed, and soon he would murder whoever had dared play such a trick on him, because it could not be real, because…

Because these kind of things could only happen to others, right?

It was difficult to walk, to make his body move, to make it obey. He felt disconnected, as if he wasn't really there, as if nothing was real. He wished for this, really. But the pain was too severe for the whole thing to be just a game.

Slowly, he reached the front door, facing it for a long time, staring at it with his eyes, big, dazed and scared. A loud voice reached him from the other side, a voice that he knew very well, and that was not the voice he had feared to hear. It was reckless, distinctive, familiar.

"Sai! You're there? Training session in a few minutes, you remember? You didn't come this morning, Sai, and I hope you've got a very good reason because..."

This morning? So it was probably a matter of hours. He gazed at the door for a long time, and when Naruto threatened to open it by force, he started panicking. He didn't really think before he shouted, in a raw scream, so raw that he winced, so raw he wondered if the voice really belonged to him:

"N-Naruto! I... I won't come. I..."

He hesitated, decided that his raw voice could be of use.

"I'm… I'm sick. I can't go out. I..."

His words faded and died at the corner of his lips. He was already surprised, allmost shocked, that he could talk. It seemed so strange, so out of place. He felt as if he were waking up from a long dream, a long nightmare.

But everything was real.

"Really?"

Naruto's voice wasn't angry, but filled with worry. This also felt strange. Because, because… _Nobody cares about you._

Didn't they?

"If you want, we can come after training and..."

"N-no!"

Panick leaked from his voice, from his trembling tone, from the scream he could not hold. Silent fell between them – a long, deafening silent, broken by Naruto's voice:

"You're sure you're okay? Sai?"

"Y-yes, it's just that I'd rather be alone. But everything's fine."

He had lied a lot in his life, but it was, without a doubt, his biggest lie. And when his comrad left without checking that it was the truth, that Sai, indeed, was okay, he left himself slide againt the door, fell on the floor, curled into a ball.

And, head in his hands, he began to sob.

* * *

Days were passing by, and it was the first time he noticed how every morning, every evening, every second looked like the previous one. And he doubted something would ever change.

The training sessions, the missions, for the Hokage, for the Root. Being forced to see _him _everyday, his shaking body everytime he was near, the terror in his belly, the indifference of the other, his gaze, ever so cold, not different from the one he had before, not so different from the one he gave everyone. As if it never happened, as if his mind were the one playing a trick on him. If it didn't hurt that much, he could believe it. It was terrible to see that it had no effects on others, while everything – the event, the words, the pain –, everything was breaking him. Even more terrible perhaps: no one was noticing.

And who was to blame?

Only himself.

He was torn apart. He wanted them to know, he wanted to tell, but he was scared. He was scared because he was dirty and repulsive, so _disgusting_, and seeing this disgust in their eyes would be unbearable. He kept telling himself that he could have shouted louder, that he could have fought back, and that maybe, maybe then _nothing_ would have happened. Everything was his fault. He hadn't been strong enough. He could have been more serious during training sessions, could have struggled, could have tried to get away. Everything was his fault, he was sure of it, and it was killing him, because if he was disgusted with himself to this point, then… _then what would the others think?_

He was _dirty_, so dirty that he wondered how his comrads could only tolerate his presence. Because it had to be obvious, or at least visible, because it couldn't be that good at hiding something that severe, something that horrific, and because he didn't know how the world could keep turning without anyone noticing.

He didn't know how the world could keep turning while his world had seemed to come to an end.

He had come to the conclusion that if no one had noticed, it was because no one cared about it. And after all, that's something he had always told himself. How could he be of any interest to anyone? He was merely a weapon, an object, raised, born to kill, groomed to feel nothing. He was asked to kill the person who mattered most to him. He had no identity, he could not even remember his name. This man who took everything from him also gave him everything he had. So maybe he was right, maybe that was something he owed him. Maybe this was normal, maybe he was overreacting.

So why did he feel that something in himself was about to break, or was already broken, and that no one could ever fix him?

Why did it hurt that much?

At the same time, he had the urge to talk about it.

Just to be sure, just to know that it was real. Speaking up would give the event a new dimension, a real dimension, and then he would be certain that he wasn't going mad. And maybe – just maybe – these words – these words that were breaking him – would be reduced to only that – words – and there would be someone to let him cry on their shoulder – someone in this world who cared about him. That was everything he wanted. A shoulder to cry on and a little bit of comfort, a little bit of love. He was too lonely, it hurt too much.

But everytime he tried to open up, something blocked him, and it was himself. He was so scared, so scared of being rejected, so scared of being seen as something dirty. So scared to see that really, he had no one.

This unbearable truth.

He kept telling himself he was so weak.

Inside his head was a little boy struggling not to break into a million pieces, on the outside was only his mask, that he was wearing everyday. His smile, dull, false and distinctive. And someone was shouting and no one else was noticing, because it was the boy inside, screaming as if he were going to die. In apparence, he was just a little bit more impassible than usual, a little bit paler too, and nothing was betraying him, except maybe a few twitches when someone was touching him.

The boy inside was always screaming, but no one was listening.

Because the only moments his shouts were piercing his defenses were when he was waking up from a nightmare, screaming.

But there was no one.

There never was anyone.

And the nightmare was becoming his everyday.

* * *

A month and two days after _it _happened – he was counting everyday wondering how many more he could bear –, he took a decision. He couldn't keep like this any longer. No matter the shame, no matter the fear, the burden was too heavy for his shoulders. So he tried to make them understand.

He chose to display an over the top reaction at the contact of someone else's skin or sudden proximity – by overtly jumping and walking away with a fake smile. He didn't have to force himself actually. Foreign touches had become impossible to stomach.

He was voluntarily taking a lot of time to go to the Root's meetings, often showing up late while his old self was always punctual. He was barely eating, and had told his comrades he had lost a lot of weight – a truth he could not hide, anyway. He had no desire to eat anymore. _He had ne desire for anything at all._

He explained that he wasn't sleeping well, and sometimes not at all, when he was asked how he got these dark circles around his eyes, which were spreading like bruises on his pale face. Physical symptom of his nightmares, physical symptom of what happened. But most of the time people simply advised him to drink tea and work less, because everyone thought that he was just overworked, or they thought that Sai had always been weird and that he was just being himself, that it wasn't important. The boy inside was still screaming. And he felt even more lonely. And depressed.

One day, he invited Sakura.

He didn't know why he had chosen her, but he felt she was the most empathic, that she wouldn't mock him. The true reason, without a doubt, was that he didn't want to confide in a man, that he felt that he wouldn't understand.

And that he was scared.

When she arrived, he had been waiting for her. She was displaying a bright smile and for an instant he thought that maybe she cared about him, and warmth and hope bloomed in his heart like flowers. They withered and turned into blame when he thought about the pain he would feel when he would be let down by her. Because it would happen, right?

And these days, he had a tendancy to blame himself for a lot of things.

They sat down.

Her pale fingers were nervously playing with her hair, and he concluded she was uncomfortable. It was a sad thought, one that immediately gave him the feeling of being immersed in cold water. They ate and talked about everything and nothing – or, more accurately, she ate and talked while he listened witout eating anything. She was talking about the training, Naruto, Sasuke, the next mission, Ino and the memories they shared, and some other topics. She told him her friend had asked her to come over one day, and that they had talked boys and that it had been wonderful because _I only have male teammates and none of them could understand, I don't even know why I'm telling you this._ He assured her it didn't bother him. It was the first time he spoke since the beginning of the meal, and the words were hardly sliding between his lips. His voice was raw, as if on the verge of tears. She stared, but he smiled, and she shrugged before talking again.

And suddenly, she was about to leave, and he hadn't told her anything, because confiding in her was too hard and he couldn't do it. But just before reaching the frontdoor, she turned and watched him carefully.

He could not hold her gaze.

"Sai", she started, and her voice was soft, as if talking to a child, "you wanted to tell me something?"

He remained silent. She was still staring, eyes narrowed.

"You told me to come over because you had something important to say, so..."

She waited. His heart was beating in his ears. It hurt.

He cleared his throat and answered:

"N-no, it's nothing, really. I… it's nothing, forget it."

But his voice was too weak, and she stayed still. A few minutes passed.

"You can leave, you know", he whispered.

"Tell her", screamed the boy inside.

She shook her head.

"No, wait. Maybe _you _don't have anything you want to say, but there's something that's been on my mind for a long time. So..."

A pause.

"Can we sit?"

Without a word, he showed her the couch. He leant against the wall, arms crossed. He still couldn't look her in the eyes.

She cleared her throat. She wasn't staring at him anymore, and her fingers were in her hair again, playing with it nervously.

"If you believe", she started, voice slow and careful, "that Naruto and me, or even Kakashi-sensei, haven't noticed anything, you're mistaken. Sai, for a bit more than one month, I believe, you've been acting strangely, and… we thought you lacked sleep, but I believe that there's something else, so Sai, I… I just wanted you to know that if you want to talk, we are here to help, so..."

She stopped. Head down, she was staring at the ground. He was looking at her hands, dancing in her hair, without uttering a word. A feeling he couldn't really identify growed inside him. He didn't know if it was a good thing or not, because even if a warmth was spreading in his whole body, he felt on the verge of tears, and he hated himself for that.

Slowly, he parted his lips, but no sound escaped him. He wanted to tell her, but…

"I understand", said the young woman with a weak smile. "Sorry to bother you with that. You don't have to talk if you don't want to, I understand, I..."

She stood up. He was looking at her with big, stunned eyes.

"So I suppose I'm just going to leave."

She headed toward the door, and he didn't understand why he did what he did, didn't understand at all, but a sob escaped him, and she froze. She slowly turned, stunned, and stared at him. He was shaking, head bending down the floor, completely silent.

"Sai?"

Her voice – a murmur filled with hesitation.

Slowly, she took a step toward him. She was scared, almost fascinated, because she had never seen him cry, and it was such a strange sight. He stayed still but whispered – and his voice was weak, almost inaudible, almost _broken_:

"I-it isn't that I don't want to tell. It's… it's that I _can't _and..."

And a tear escaped him. He couldn't suppress his pain any longer. And if Sakura hadn't been there, hadn't supported him, if she hadn't jumped, he would have collapsed on the ground.

So they slowly sat on the couch, him shaking and her holding him clumsily in her arms, still unable to believe what she was seeing. She was whispering comforting words, but he didn't seem to hear them. They were both afraid, him because he didn't know how to tell and that he feared being unable to, and even if he could he was terrified of her reaction, so _terrified…_ her because she was scared to discover the thing that could make someone like Sai cry, but also because not knowing was maybe worse in its own way. Because she felt utterly useless and could imagine everything, and this couldn't be that terrible, right?

They were silentely sitting on the couch. He could feel the warmth of her body through her clothes, could feel the steady beatings of her heart, and she could feel the warmth of his tears in the crook of her neck, and she was stunned because she had never even thought that he was capable of crying.

He didn't exactly know how much time they spent like this – him in her arms, her holding him tightly. Again, it seemed to him that time had no hold on him anymore. He still couldn't cross her gaze when he murmured, with a shaking voice, that he was incapable to reveal anything.

She stared at him, with soft and glistening eyes, and put a hand on his shoulder before whispering:

"I know this. But maybe you can show me."

And he finally looked her in the eyes, and she offered him a dull smile, a shaking smile, which seemed allmost as fake as the one he usually had.

Not this time.

For the first time, his smile was truer than Sakura's smile.

Because it was as broken as him.

* * *

He didn't know why he hadn't thought about painting sooner. It would have been the obvious thing to try, so obvious he didn't know how it escaped him. Brush in hand, he was thinking. He was staring at the canvas – too white, too pure – wondering how exactly he was supposed to represent what he wanted to show.

She was watching him. From a corner, motionless and quiet. Until she advised him to make his heart talk, that this would be enough for now.

His hand slid across the canvas. He didn't really understand what he was doing. She had told him to make his heart talk, to turn his feelings into shapes and shades, so he supposed he had to talk about shame, horror, terror, loneliness, desperation, _about a strong desire to make it all stop. _He didn't know how to show all that.

He used dark colours. He had always been taught to start with lighter tones and to end with black, but the truth was, he didn't know he could paint what he was feeling with bright colours, or worst, _white_. White was the colour of purity, of innocence. He wasn't one or the other anymore.

And that was precisely the problem.

So he started with dark colours. Grey. Not the pearl grey, soft and light, that the sky wore when it's as smooth as a mirror, or the almost white grey of a winter's day. It was the dark grey of a room shrouded in darkness, with shutters slightly open and glimmers piercing through.

He shivered.

He was painting with a surprising ease. It seemed like the exercice had never been that effortless. When he was over with the first shade, he started using navy blue and black, and some other colours that were a bit lighter but not that light, and he felt as if his fingers were flying across the canvas. He was one with his brush. He was the brush and the brush was him, and progressively the canvas took the appearance of his feelings.

His hands, his fingers, were birds flying freely across the canvas, and it was strange, almost unbelievable, but for the first time in a long time, he felt empty, like a simple bystander who wasn't involved in this whole story. For the first time in days, he forgot the shame, forgot the horror, the desperation. He was withdrawn in his world, separated from the outside world by a thick wall. He even ended up forgetting Sakura's presence behind him, who was watching him with furrow eyebrows, eyes widening more and more as the scene unfolded.

He was painting. And it was all that mattered to him.

And for the first time in a long time, even if he wasn't feeling okay – but had he ever felt okay? -, he wasn't feeling bad.

When he finished, he was still intoxicated with this new feeling, and he took a step backwards, a slight smile on his lips. Sakura came closer and stared.

A little boy, alone, obviously lost, who strangely looked like Sai. Dark eyes, black hair, a pale skin, almost white, almost gleaming. He seemed to scream. He was in a dark room, a bedroom, because she could see a bed. Behind him, there were weird shapes. They looked like monsters. Fading into the obscurity, even more dark than the walls, than the ground. They were terryfying. And familiar. Sakura felt astounded when she recognized furnitures, furnitures with faces of monsters, furnitures that were stretching and were causing cold sweat to roll down her back. And the worst was the bed, which looked like a stray dog about to pounce on the child. Then, her eyes fell on the door, and maybe there was something there, she wasn't really sure, but it seemed to her that there was _someone_ lurking in the shadows, a silhouette just a little bit darker than the rest of the room. She told herself she was probably wrong. Still, the door's handle looked too much like a grim smile, and a shiver ran down her spine.

She wanted to look at the real Sai, wanted to look away, but she couldn't. So she stared at this screaming child, this child who seemed to be on the verge of tears, and she felt dread, and something else, even if she didn't know what it was.

"I don't understand", she whispered.

She was scared to understand.

* * *

"Are you feeling better?"

They were sitting in a park together, on the outskirts of town. He wasn't looking at her, wasn't looking at anything in particular. His eyes were two slots, and he was hiding his feelings behind a fake smile. However, had she asked this question two weeks ago, he wouldn't have known how to answer and would have panicked. Now, he could honestly say:

"A bit better."

And after a few seconds, he added:

"I did some other paintings, you know. I'd like you to see them."

She nodded. He still hadn't said anything to her, but if this could help, she would do it.

For a moment, they stayed silent, then she asked, hesitant:

"Does it… does it have anything to do with the Root?"

He wasn't very expressive, had never been the kind of persons to express feelings easily, but he tensed. It had been a month since he had drawn his first canvas, _the canvas of monsters_, and it had brought them closer. They had spent a lot of time together, and even if he did everything to avoid talking about a certain event, she had thought a lot, had made some conclusions. She was happy to see that it hadn't been completely useless.

"It… It is related, yes", he answered, hesitant.

His voice faded, and she inquired:

"You don't want to tell me anything, right?"

He shook his head.

"I can't. It's impossible."

"So I'll have to figure it out by myself."

He nodded slightly.

She smiled.

"I'm happy you got better. We were very worried, you know."

"Really?"

He stared at her. At her eyes, green and wide, devoided of malice. She wasn't lying, he was almost sure of that.

He fought back tears and looked away.

"It's strange", he said. "I've always believed no one was interested in me, I thought that..."

_You have no name, no identity. No one cares about you._

He closed his eyes tightly. Not these memories! He didn't want to relive them. With time, he had hoped that they would be less vivid, but they were like burns, like words branded on his skin. He was beginning to think they would never go.

"It's false!" Her voice, outraged, almost a scream. "How could you even think that? You can't believe this! We… we do love you. You are our teammate. When something happens to you, it's not just about yourself, we are involved too, because it hurts us too, because..."

She abruptly stopped, face slightly red. He was staring at her without understanding.

"Because you're a friend", she said, and he looked at her with big, wide eyes.

"A friend?"

"Yes."

'What's that? A friend?"

She sent him a weird look.

"It's someone who is important to you while you are also important to him. He's there when you need it, when you're not okay. It's someone you trust – and someone who deserves that trust. Like a second family, you see? But you don't choose your family while you get to choose your friends."

"I have no family", he said, voice a little too hard, a little too sharp. "And I don't know what it's like to have one."

"You have a brother", she retorted, without thinking.

"Yes. And I was asked to kill him. That's family for you?"

She stared at him, incredulous, before looking away, as if burned by his glance. A long silence, then:

"Sorry."

She stared at him with big, wide eyes.

"Why are you saying sorry?"

"Because my words hurt you."

"That's not right", she almost shouted, before calming down, seeing how it was making Sai uncomfortable. "I'm the one who should say sorry."

"Ok." A silence, then he asked, stunned: "Why?"

"I shoudn't have talked about your brother, sorry."

"It's not that bad."

"It is for me. Even if you don't understand. It's bad for me, I shoudn't have said that."

He watched her for a long time, before looking away, at something in the distance.

"It's strange", he said. "I've never really understood what a feeling was, I've done everything I could to feel something, to understand. Now, I think I understand something, even if I still make mistakes in social situations, but I'm not happier, I even feel too much and I'd like to feel less. But maybe it's just me, maybe I'm strange. Maybe..."

_Maybe if it had happened to someone else, he wouldn't be that affected._

_ Maybe I'm weak._

"You're more human. It's not bad."

"Human? I'm not sure I understand."

"Before, you were only leaving as a tool, as a weapon, now you have feelings. You're alive. It doesn't make sense to get out of bed every morning if it's just to survive and do what someone else tells you to do."

He pondered her words for a moment before replying:

"It's probably true, but maybe that's what I currently do."

"Do what you're told?"

"No. Survive." And before she could react, he added, eyes a bit empty: "Moreover, I don't really understand the sense of the word "human". I mean, it should be synonym of a certain humanism, right? But I don't see any in what we do."

_Or in what he did to me._

She hesitated. Finally, she sayed:

"It's strange to talk to the real Sai again. Maybe it's a sign you're getting better."

"I'm getting better."

Or maybe not, and because there was this "maybe" unspoken but very much hovering in the air they breathed, he added, voice so low she could barely understand:

"I believe."

A silence. She broke it.

"I don't understand what you mean. We fight for our village, to protect the ones we love. It's a completely normal human behaviour."

"That's not what I was talking about. I was thinking about what we could do to others. Things that none could qualify as humans. And I don't understand that. No more than I understand the logic behind fighting for people we love, even if I think I'm making progress on this one."

He stopped before adding, and this time his voice was so low she had to lean towards him:

"Sometimes I tell myself, "how good would it be if we had no feelings?" or, more precisely, "would humanity be better if we had ne feelings?" I'm regularly thinking about a two cases scenarios. In one, there's a person who doesn't have any feelings. He fights, just because he's being ordered to do so. Maybe he doesn't even know the reasons behind the fight or the people it serves, or maybe he does. Sometimes this person commits atrocious crimes, but I don't think anyone would pause and wonder how he could do it, because he wouldn't be seen as a human, he would be considered a weapon, and we don't pause wondering how a gun could kill someone. Now, imagine a person who has feelings, fights and commits the same atrocious crimes, and I know this kind of person exists. I'm pretty sure a lot of people will wonder why he behaved the way he did, because they had feelings, knew what they were doing, knew the consequences of their actions on others. But this person gives a reason – we always have one – and maybe they say "the ones I hurt were bad people" or "the cause we serve is just too important". Maybe they even say "it was for my village, it was necessary to protect the ones I love". And I was wondering, who between the two is more human?"

She looked stunned. When she finally regained her ability to talk, she whispered, visibly unhinged:

"You would have never said that before. You were fighting without asking any questions. You were following Danzo's orders and… what the fuck happened to make you think like that?"

"I'm just telling myself that the people we define as monsters are maybe not the real ones", he said, voice shaking because she had said Danzo's name, mind racing and wondering if she had noticed his reaction.

She seemed too shocked for that. Finally she said, voice a bit distant, a bit too cold, and eyes staring into the nothingness:

"You know, if I had the choice, I wouldn't fight, but I can't stop fighting. Because the world isn't all sunshines and roses, but it's all we have and we don't have any choice. And I wouldn't bear beeing a simple civilian because I want to protect the ones I love. Because even if sometimes we commit atrocities, we do it for the sake of the ones we love, and… and maybe this end is the thing that makes us more humans."

"I don't understand how we can be considered more humans because we fight to protect the ones we love – we fight other people who probably fight for the same reasons. And it doesn't apply to me, because..."

_Because I don't know what it's like to love someone._

"Are you… are you feeling like a monster?" Her voice was hesitant, her eyes wide and filled with something that looked like worry but he wasn't really sure. "Is it the thing you're trying to say? Is it the point behind the whole conversation?" He shook his head, but he wasn't looking at her, and she shivered. "I don't… I don't think your question is one worth answering", she said, voice soft and careful. "Because it isn't going to change the world, because it isn't useful to anyone to think like that, it only causes harm. We are ninjas, we fight, we do what we're told to do, and that's all. We don't get the opportunity to say we disagree."

"I'be been following orders for too long, I think." And because she seemed very shaken and perhaps even a bit angry, he added: "That's probably what this conversation is all about."

And the last order he followed was the one that broke him.

Because… _why didn't he fight back?_

"Again, it doesn't sound like you", she noticed with a stiff smile. "In fact, it doesn't sound like you at all. But as I said, it doesn't really matter, as we don't have any choice. We had it before, when we chose to become ninjas."

"Choice?" he repeated, bitter. It seemed like such a strong word when ninjas were exposed to death and the reality of war at such a young age. But still, it wasn't worth mentionning, because: "I don't remember having a choice, I don't remember children being asked whether they want to join the Root before taking them by force. I didn't have any choice, I've never had any choice. Because as long as I remember, I've always been a member of the Root."

"Maybe, but I chose to be a ninja, it was my calling. I can't bear to know that somone else is fighting for my sake while I do nothing. So it's normal to give up some of my freedom for my superiors' sake. And the Root is another problem, besides..."

"Freedom?"

"Yes, freedom. When you have a choice and you are more or less free to choose your destiny."

"So I've never had it."

"Then it's useless to wonder if the Root's members are monsters or not."

He looked at her without understanding.

"I believe it's useless to think about morality when we talk about people who aren't free. Morality is a concept that exists because we're free, or at least partially free. There's no point wondering if you Root members are doing something good or evil. They do what they do, that's all. However, it's another story if we talk about the Root's existence, because the person who created it chose to do so, and he chose to enslave other human beings to protect the village."

"Does that make him a monster?"

"I don't know. He's more of a monster than you, though. Because even if the end is worth some sacrifices in my opinion, nothing could justify such means."

"Danzo, you think he's a monster?"

There was a slight tremor in his voice, so slight it was barely noticeable. He didn't know why he was asking the question, but he had to do it. It was an urge, a need. Because if he had been the victim of a monster, maybe he had been just that – a victim – and he couldn't have done anything to prevent what happened. Maybe it wasn't his fault, maybe he wasn't _bad_. And he needed her, needed her to tell her that yes, Danzo was a monster, and no, he wasn't responsible for what happened. _He needed it._

"He's a free man, right? He makes his own choices. And some of these choices are not worthy of a human being."

His sigh was almost audible. It was as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders, from his chest. He wanted to hold her against him, wanted to thank her, to tell her how much these words meant to him. But he couldn't. It would have seemed strange. Instead, he looked at the sky, and said:

"I'd like to be free, even if it's just for one moment."

"You want to leave the Root?"

"No. Danzo, he..."

He stopped. He couldn't bear imagining what Danzo would do to him if he were to leave. He felt the urge to vomit as memories were assaulting him like the monsters in his nightmares.

"Is he the one who hurt you?"

He jumped, stared at her. She wasn't looking at him. She seemed stuck in her mind, thinking deeply.

"I believe… I believe that I'm starting to understand."

Silence fell between them as he hold his breath. She didn't add anything, and he ended up looking away. He noticed a bird, perched on a nearby tree.

"I'd like to be a bird", he whispered, and although his words were odd even to his own ears, she only asked why. "It doesn't know any restraints, doesn't know borders, it's as free as one can be. And sometimes… sometimes I also think that some animals are more humans than humans themselves."

For a long moment, she stayed silent. Then, very softly: "Me too, I'd like to be a bird."

He looked at her, smiled at her.

"I'd like to thank you. It's really good – talking to you. And now I know what to do next. So thank you."

"I… it's nothing, really", she replied, slightly hesitant.

He stood up.

"You're going?"

"Yes. As I said, I know what to do next."

"And… can I ask you what it is?"

His smile widened.

"No, of course not", as if his words were an evidence. Then, after an hesitation: "But maybe you can come at my place tonight. I'll have something to show you."

He left her like that. She stared at the bird, which suddenly flapped its wings and vanished in the distance.

She shrugged and walked away.

* * *

The sound of a fist hitting the door.

For a moment, Sai could feel his heart beating faster in his chest. Shivers ran across his skin, across his shaking body. Maybe the fear would never go away. Maybe it would always be there, stuck in his belly, maybe he would never be able to erase it.

He wanted to believe a different story.

He came closer to the door, his steps very light on the ground, moving with no sounds. His hand reached the handle. Even between his cold fingers, it seemed cool and hard. He took a deep breath and opened the door.

When he saw Sakura, his fear vanished.

She was standing there, in the evening's light, and he could discern her smile. He noticed her fingers were playing with her hair, clumsily, nervously, eyebrows furrowed. Without a word, he took a step backwards to let her enter the building.

Her eyes wandered on the walls and widened. He was watching her carefully, without uttering a word, waiting for her reaction. When she opened her mouth, her words were barely audible, and he had to bend toward her to understand them.

"The paitings… you..."

He shook his head. Face impassible, eyes very calm. Inside, he was shaking.

"Too many memories", he explained, voice detached, almost cold.

Before she could react, he walked away, took a few steps closer to a single canvas, a canvas Sakura was sure she had never seen, because the colours were far too light, far too bright. Because it didn't seem like Sai. Not like the Sai she knew, the Sai sad and false and almost _broken _she was talking to since a few months. So, without a word, she stared, and she felt tears in her eyes.

"You..."

But her words died in her throat, and she raised a hand to touch her face, to hide her eyes, to be sure, to be sure that he wouldn't see her cry, because even if she had always been the weakest, the one who was always crying and a burden on her teammates' back, even if this Sakura hadn't completely disappeared, even if she would probably never completely disappear, she couldn't allow herself to cry when Sai was like that, when his eyes were so sad, so hurt, when he seemed on the verge of breaking. She couldn't.

So she just stared, in silence.

And under her gaze, under their gaze, in a middle of an azure blue trail, were the wings of light, the almost white wings that were deployed above the ground. It was a bird. Sai's most beautiful painting. And their gazes met when he said:

"One day I'll be free."

There was sadness in his eyes despite his attempt to hide it. He wasn't okay, and his heart was beating painfully in his chest. However, he needed to know, needed to hear these words to move forward. So, just to be sure, just to convince himself, he asked, tilting his head on one side:

"Do you think it's possible?"

She smiled. Her eyes were green and bright, but all the sadness within them had vanished, and they were beaming with a feeling he couldn't identify, a warm feeling that made him feel safer, even if he didn't know why.

"Everything's possible", she replied.

And her tone was full of promises, promises of a future, of something brighter at the end of the tunnel.

He wasn't sure theses promises could be respected. So, with a visible shake, he opened his mouth once again, tried to utter the words that were on his mind, and failed. But he saw something in Sakura's eyes – a glimmer, an understanding – and he knew she understood. She answered his mute question, in a low voice, in a very soft voice:

"Nothing lasts forever. Everything ends, especially people. Danzo is a monster, but he's also a man. And no man lasts forever."

And he would probably die before him. So he felt something, something untying inside him, and it seemed that it had become easier to breath, even if it was the same room with the same people and the same air.

He would survive this.

"Did you throw your other canvas?" she asked, eyes not looking at him.

"No."

No hesitation in his voice, and no surprise on the young woman's face. She probably understood that even though he couldn't bear seeing them anymore, he could never throw them, or at least not before a long time.

Only, it still wasn't enough.

"The Root…, he started in a whisper. You said we weren't really responsible for our actions, that it was a matter of freedom. I thought..."

He stopped. It was hard to speak. He managed to utter the words after a terrible fight against himself, but his voice was hoarse, so hoarse he thought he was going to burst into tears, and she was watching him, she was watching him and her face was distorted with pain, and maybe it was that sight which gave him the strenght to speak, because if she could suffer that much for him, if she could feel only a bit of what he was feeling, then maybe she could understand.

Maybe he could be less lonely.

"I thought I was to blame", he said.

And when the words were out there in the air, when they resonated, full of shame, and hit his ears, it seemed to him he had made an important step toward recovery, that he did something worth celebrating. So he kept speaking, and his sentences were flowing like water, and his words similar to a continuous flow. Fear had almost vanished.

"I thought I was to blame for what happened. I thought it was my fault. I thought I deserved it, that… that..." _You should be happy to be of use to someone else. _"That it was my role." His voice was a bit more acute, the words a bit harder to utter. "I… I thought that it was normal, that I was overreacting… I..."

He stopped, a vivid pain in his eyes, staring at something that wasn't really there. She was looking at them when she asked, almost begging:

"Tell me… tell me what happened… Sai..."

Their eyes met. He read compassion and pity in hers, and shook his head.

"Do you think… do you think we can heal from everything?"

She looked at him, not knowing what to say. She felt lost, she didn't know what to do. But she was there. She was there, and only for that, he was grateful.

"I think so", she finally replied, and he grinned.

"You think so? You are a doctor, right? So you should know. Can people heal from everything? Can..."

His voice, which ended like the end of a sentence, the end of a life. And the silence, this terrible silence between them, which had never been that heavy. She broke it.

"It depends. It depends of the people, of their support system, of… of a lot of things."

He was glad she didn't try to lie.

"And for me?"

He couldn't bring himself to look at her. Shivers were running on his skin, chest suddenly compressed and very tight. He had expected her to repeat words, words he had heard this infamous night, expected her to tell him he was worthless, that he would never be okay. She would use different words of course – more polite ones –, but the meaning would be the same.

He was wrong.

She moved closer, slowly and soflty, cautiously, as if faced with a wounded animal. Then, even more slowly, she extended her arm and put a hand on his shoulder. He didn't try to get away, only staring at her in silence.

"I'm sure of that."

"Why?"

A word, hovering between them before losing itself in the crooks of their ears. She smiled gently.

"You're already feeling better, right?"

He stared at her for a long time.

"It doesn't mean I'm okay."

"You'll be okay."

Her fingers around his shoulder, tightening, a movement that was almost painful, but he didn't care.

"Because you are not alone in this. I won't let you. Because we are a team."

_No one cares about you._

He felt tears, fought against them. His voice was shaking when he said:

"It's wrong, it's wrong… He told me… he told me no one cared about me, told me..."

Pain, sadness, uncertainty… He had wanted so badly to feel, and now he didn't want it anymore, couldn't be like this anymore, because… _because it hurt too much._

"Don't say that. We are a team. A team. You remember that? A team. We never abandon a teammate."

Pain, sadness, uncertainly… and somewhere, a glimmer of hope, so slight he had to focus deeply to find it, but it was there, and he wanted to believe, wanted to believe her to move forward and…

And he thought about Sasuke. About Naruto, about Sakura, who had done everything to find him, who had never lost their hope that one day he would come back, who kept moving heaven and earth for him. And he thought that if these words could be true for a deserter, for someone who joined Orochimaru and abandoned his teammates, they could be true for him, too.

And he realized he wanted to believe her, wanted to believe her more than everything in the world. Maybe she was saying the truth, maybe he could be okay, one day, he wasn't very sure. He had never been great at understanding relationships between people, and maybe Danzo was right when he was saying that no one cared about him. But maybe Sakura wasn't wrong either, when she said they were a team, and that we didn't abandon a teammate. And she was the one he wanted to believe, the one he _needed _to believe.

So he looked away, stared at his canvas, smiled.

"One day I'll be free", he said.

And his smile was beautiful, beautiful but a bit dull. He was like him. Almost broken, but still there, still alive. He was still alive and with days passing by, he would heal, he was almost sure of that. And even if the future wouldn't be bright, he wouldn't be as dark as the present.

Because people could heal from everything, even the most terrible things.

Because Sakura herself had said it, and he wanted to believe it.

Nothing lasts forever.

* * *

_I'm always happy to read reviews, so please don't hesitate to write a comment. I hope you enjoyed reading this text as much as I enjoyed translating it into english._


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